The Trails of Commissar Ritter (Warhammer40k)
by TiredEagleofManwe
Summary: After being abandoned while on a covert assignment tasked by the Inquisition, an Imperial commissar struggles to fulfill the mission and keep his remaining Guardsmen alive on a desolate planet filled hostile xenos-constructs.
1. The Journal

**I**

 **[Journal Entry: Commissar Randall Ritter] [The cave (Vespit) – day unknown – 793.M41]**

 _I am dying. So slowly, so…gently. Doubtless this revelation will not surprise you, inquisitor, considering where I am – though my health was against me from this mission's beginning, as it has been for the past sixteen months. We are all dying. Slowly, gently dying. I had never expected to end this way – I had resigned myself to a brutal, violent demise decades ago; Emperor knows I've seen my share of them and it was only a matter of time before it was my turn to be shredded by the grinder. But this, this is galling beyond words. I am an Imperial commissar and a commissar must never be seen as weak, nor can he blame fatigue or environmental conditions should weakness manifest itself. Yet to my discredit, I find myself doing both. Vespit is killing us: this I must state here and now. I am not afraid to die. Only in death does duty end – this I have known and accepted since my childhood-days at the Schola Progenium, but I never thought I would be dying in such a fashion: indeed, I am still not quite sure if I truly_ am _dying, yet there can be no other explanation for what is happening to me…and to my men._

 _My men. There are only seven left, now. Of the fifty I hand-picked myself (at your bequest, lord) these are all that remain. You do not know them. You are not worthy to know them. But having served as the Joskoll 89th's regimental commissar for eight years, I have come to know them, to respect them and to guard their honor jealously. I would tell you a little bit about these last seven soldiers, inquisitor, so that you may see them as individual persons – rather then merely as names and service records found on Munitorioum files; perhaps they will become, through my words, more then simply a handful of backwater-world Guardsmen that you have unjustly abandoned here to die._

 _Heed me now in His name, inquisitor! You, who hold the fate of millions of Imperial souls in your hands; you, who bears the holy seal that grants you the authority to burn worlds; you, at whose command these loyal Joskollians have toiled, suffered and died – heed me, and mark well our names and our labors carried out on your behalf and for the love of Him on Terra. This will be my final testimony. May my words endure long after my body has perished – and may you one day answer to the Highest Judge for all that you have done and for all that you have failed to do._

 _Ave Imperator!_

 _The man sleeping next to me with his sandy-haired head resting on his kitbag, one mangled formally sky-blue eye now hidden behind skillfully applied dressing, is my loyal adjutant Jeffron Knolls, who was assigned to me upon my jointing the 89th on Helnorr following my predecessor's death in action. He was only eighteen then: young, pious, friendly and eager to please. He has a mild mental disability that keeps him childlike and simple-minded (there is a rumour that his family took advantage of his devoutness to the Emperor by convincing him to join the Guard so that they wouldn't have to house and feed him anymore). Though he was a capable enough soldier and always followed orders to the latter, the men of his platoon bullied and teased him constantly, much to his own perpetual hurt and confusion. His assignment as my aide was an act of mercy on behalf of his then-sergeant, who hoped I could offer him protection. After it became known that he was the new commissar's footpad the men left him alone, though one fool made the mistake of calling him a 'black-coat's boot-licker' and promptly got his nose broken for his pains. Knolls is utterly devoted to me, viewing me as a physical embodiment of the Emperor's Will and there is no task he will not undertake, no horror he will not boldly confront, if it is done in the knowledge that it is my will – and by extension the Emperor's – that he acts upon. He has saved my life more the once, and no adjutant before him has served me so faithfully and selflessly. The years have hardly changed him, and now he is sleeping the sleep of the just, and is the only member of our merry company who is completely at peace with our current situation._

 _Apart from taking care of me (not the easiest of tasks since I became ill) Knolls's sole other hobby is sketching and drawing everything from me (he recently presented me with a flattering rendition of yours truly striding over a blasted landscape waving his power-saber, firing his bolt-pistol and looking overly heroic in his greatcoat and cap), any officers, other Guardsmen, xenos he has slain, the landscapes and botanical wonders of various worlds we have served on and the animals and local Imperial citizens thereof, the God-Emperor and the Primarchs, Space Marines, epic historical battles, various Saints, warships and tanks (my favorite is a sketch of Saint Sabbet Reborn riding into battle on a Chimera). The space around his sleeping berth is plastered with dozens of these drawings and certain pious Guardsmen, ratings and officers actually pay him good coin to sketch their favorite heroes and battles for them. I am glad his art is so well regarded on our vessel, as these fragile treasures will be his only lasting legacy thanks to you._

 _Sitting across from me, his back propped against the cave wall, his long-las cradled loose but primed in his nimble hands, is Trooper Norman Crawley, a sniper of some renown in our regiment. He is awake, and he is watching me with hooded hate-filled eyes. Since I had his only friend, Leeds, executed two years ago, hatred for me has ruled his heart, though it may surprise you, inquisitor, that he is the one who betrayed his friend to me upon discovering that the man he loved like a brother was involved in the running of a prostitution ring made up of orphaned youths during our year-long deployment on Flegon I. Crawley confided in me privately, bribing me with the names of the rest of the pimps, two of which were junior officers, if I would be merciful and consign Leeds to the Penal Legions so he could redeem himself. But he had mistaken my fair-handedness in dealing out punishment for a weakness of will and character. I am not a man to be bribed. I promised him nothing and it was his own sense of regimental honor that compelled him to yield the names and locations to me or else be charged with withholding information concerning the criminal acts overseen by his friend, which would make him an accomplice by default. After their capture and interrogation, I had all eight pimps hung before the assembled regiment along with thirty-seven enlisted 'clients' for their predatory transgressions against the long-suffering people of Flegon. Leeds died in disgrace and Crawley has despised me ever since. Yet it is his unfailing sense of honor that has kept him from putting a bullet in my back, for he knows that he is just as responsible as I, and his hatred of me is succeeded only by his own self-hatred and hatred of the base creature Leeds had become. He is fed by and nourished by his hate; it is all that he has left, and as long as I live he has an outlet to focus it upon. But now, as our lives slowly draw to a close, I keep my eye on him and wonder if he may yet choose to finally punish the punisher._

 _Lately Crawley's renown as a sniper has increased ten-fold. As I write this he has scored seven Iron Hound kills with his precious weapon, and looks forward to adding to that score before he dies. He does not allow his grief, anger and fatigue to distract him from his duty. Although no one outside of our little band will never hear tell of his deeds, there is a strange aurora of contented satisfaction about him. He knows he has done well by his profession and though you have condemned him to die along with the rest of us, that satisfaction cannot be taken from him. Like all good Imperial soldiers he knows that the greatest of deeds are those only the Emperor sees, and while he has never impressed upon anyone that he is a pious man, Crawley nevertheless embodies the ideal of the unsung, unknown warrior who quietly makes his kills under the watchful eyes of his God and finds them good._

 _Seated next to Crawley and wrapped in a blanket, his gray-bearded chin resting on his chest, is Sargent Paull Landon, the only surviving officer in our group after myself. He is the oldest of us all; his face is lined and weather-beaten and his once-blond hair is now a dignified iron-gray. He looks to be asleep, but he is merely deep in thought, brooding upon our dire predicament, and, like any true leader of men, wondering how he might keep us all alive for a little while longer. He was a stalwart vigorous sergeant when I first joined the 89th and eight years later he remains a stalwart vigorous sergeant, despite that fact that I have recommended him for promotion six times. He started out as a common dog-soldier, earning his rank pins through his own sweat and blood. He is entirely free of the commissioned officer's desire for medals (Emperor knows he deserves them), glory, recognition and advancement. He lacks the refinement and breeding of our regiment's aristocratic officer cadre and is rough around the edges, but makes up for it with feats of battlefield improvision, a fekton of guts and an uncanny ability to get his men both in and out of the most tricky and volatile of situations. Landon boasts of an augmetic right leg and a bionic left eye: mute testimonies to his unfaltering service in our eternal Emperor's many wars. Despite his coarse behavior and rough mannerisms we get along well; he is the best regicide player I have ever had the pleasure of loosing to on a continuous basis. Soon he will get stiffly to his feet, stretch his legs, crack his neck and amble over to me so we can talk over his next plan of action. I will not trouble him until then. He is a dedicated officer and there is no man or woman here who is not ready follow him to whatever end awaits us here on this Emperor-forsaken world (can you say as much, inquisitor?). It will be a bitter hour indeed if he should fall before I do and pass the burden of command onto me, but Landon is far too stubborn to bite the dust and leave the remainder of his men in the care of a black-coat. It is true: I am in no state to assume complete command. Lead on, Sergeant Landon; chart a sure course to your doom and I will follow in your weary wake like a shadow-crow in anticipation of the slaughter and death to come. It is the only thing we both have left to look forward to._

 _Sometimes I wonder if Landon is too good to be true (Throne on Terra, he volunteered for this mission). Or perhaps, to my continued discredit, I have become too cynical and jaded to appreciate it when a man of Landon's integrity and competence arises from the faceless masses of beleaguered Guardsmen to guide and lead them to glory in the most forthright and selfless manner that a soldier can display. May the Emperor reward him were all his stuffed-shirted superiors failed to - he is a worthy warrior and I am glad he is here with me at the closing of my long years of service. We make the perfect pair._

 _One man is not resting like he should. Vox-operator Brett Sorran is a man whom you have driven to the uttermost limits of sanity and constraint. For days (weeks?) he has presided over his battered vox-caster like a famished Joskollian woodswolf over the mounded bodies of the plague-slain. It is one thing to have a damaged set to tinker with and so justly whittle away the hours trying to fix it, or else because of atmospheric conditions hampering transmission, an excuse to explore the terrain in hopes of getting a decent signal – but to have a perfectly functioning set on a planet generating nothing from the ground or air that would interfere with our communications is something he cannot handle. He does not want to accept the truth that you have abandoned us. He would rather believe that his set is malfunctioning or that Vespit itself is to blame for the perfect unbroken static that has filled his ears following your last transmission weeks(?) ago. Yet now he cannot pretend any longer that you are on the other end, awaiting a status-report from us and that all he has to do is adjust his set or alter his location so he can make that report happen. You are not there and he knows it. He now paces the confines of our cave, muttering to himself, his brown hair disheveled and his augmented right hand clenching and unclenching as he struggles with the frustration and despair building up inside of him. Sorren is an extremely nervous, high-strung individual who is incapable of sitting still unless he is physically strapped into something. And he never goes anywhere without his vox-set. Or without ten grenades of various types. He has it in him to bravely acquit himself in any battle or skirmish despite his easily rattled nerves and his inability to hold still. He is a wealth of jokes, snide under-the-breathe-remarks, outrageous suggestions and statements, crazy ideas and the ability to shriek loud enough to give the Emperor ear-bleeds when some truly unfortunate comrade or enemy sneaks up and scares him. Looking at him now I just now that he wants to scream in frustration at the top of his lungs but out of courtesy for his fellow troopers he refrains. Because we would kill him. Another good man, another survivor, another victim of your precarious whims, inquisitor. There is no forgiveness for this. He feels useless and helpless; there is nothing he can do and we all know it. If he keeps up this behavior I may need to have a few words with him. He should conserve his strength for the long road ahead – a road that has only one destination, a road that will not end until we are all as dead as this world. Sorren is the man who suffers your silence the most, inquisitor, though I suspect that he will have much to say concerning you when we are gathered before the Golden Throne and true silence rules once more on Vespit._

 _Hunched over and sitting cross-legged by the mouth of the cave with his flamer and promethium tanks close by rests our hulking flame-trooper Rochard Rollins, scribbling in a journal of his own, the small pencil clutched in his meaty hand. The bloody light cast by the dying sun illuminates his bald head, causing the intricate gang-tattoos of his pre-Guard life to stand out vividly against his tanned skin. Even in a dress uniform he looks like an undersump thug, and once he was, but life in the 89th has changed him for the better. Mostly because he loves to burn things, and while the Imperium is full of things and beings that need to be burned it is not a full-blown obsession – he also enjoys writing, carving and tattooing, the latter hobby having earned him the nickname 'Inker'. His skill with the needle has made him a legend aboard the Imperial Herald – not only Joskollians but Guardsmen from other regiments billeted with us will seek him out for their ink-work (I happen to be guilty of this as well). Thanks to his skills, many of Knolls's sketches have become permanent fixtures on the body-parts of various troopers and ratings. He is a solid, reliable trooper whose fearsome exterior conceals a great heart; yet he remains a man to be terrified of just the same. Like Knolls, Rollins seems to have resigned himself without rancor to our current fate, though some of his good humor has declined in recent days(?). At lest he is not idle. He always finds something to do, and he does it the best he can. He is easy to be around, the kind of man you could randomly sit down next to in a tavern and have a conversation about anything as if he was your lifelong friend. We once discussed the pros and cons of plasma weapons for two hours during a particularity long warp-voyage - one of the most engaging conversations of my career._

 _Annoyingly, Rollins' one true vice is his bias against the 89th's aristocratic officers (who are equally biased against him). Once I had him publicly flogged for referring to Captain Cornelius Draulian as 'Captain Crap-Dribbler' (and only because he was unfortunate enough to utter this within Draulian's hearing – I had to appease him or risk loosing a popular trooper to the infuriated Captain's pistol even though the title is apt, as poor Draulian suffers from chronic diarrhea). Rollins repaid me later with a free tattoo of my favorite Saint on my right bicep. He is a man who understands diplomacy. I sometimes wonder what he is writing about. What is this like for him, knowing that we have been left here to die? I wish he were filling his journal with creative insults crafted solely for you, inquisitor; but, unlike me, he never had the pleasure of meeting you face-to-face. Like the rest of them, he does not know the true nature of the man in charge of this merry mission. He never will. That is a burden that I, Colonel Nathanial Brayce, Commissar Elkor Udett and High Command must bare in silence (like the silence of Vespit)._

 _Lying on the ground not far from me is scout-trooper Elise Graystone, our most recent casualty. Like Knolls, she is sleeping deeply and peacefully but, unlike my adjutant, it is not the sleep of the simple and the innocent but that of the heavily-medicated soon-to-die variety. A few hours(?) ago Wess amputated her left arm which the Iron Hounds had mauled past salvaging. She has lost too much blood and Wess's reserves have already been given to other troopers, some still alive, most now dead. Graystone is a small wiry woman with a heavily-freckled face and short curly hair. She is our last scout. I think Landon is waiting for her to die before he gives orders for us to move out so no-one will have to carry her. Wess keeps glancing at me, waiting for my approval to grant Graystone the Emperor's Mercy – or should I do it myself? What? Throne, no. Graystone has done her duty (as I knew she would) and for me to end her now in my trademark brutal manner would seem as if I were punishing her rather then sending her into the Light. Her poor body has suffered enough. I nod slightly to Wess and she flourishes the already prepared injector. She gently places a gloved hand on Graystone's pallid brow, leans in close and whispers a quiet prayer that I cannot overhear. There is no chaplain with us to preform the proper last rites for her according to the traditional Joskollian customs, but Wess has administered the Emperor's Mercy to countless numbers of her kinfolk so she knows what to say, though I doubt Graystone can hear her. Then the needle slips in and our dutiful scout passes in silence (like Vespit), freed at last from pain and weariness. I will never see her smile again. She always found something to smile about, even in the bleakest of situations; always cheerful, always optimistic. She is one of the few female Guardsmen whose attitude and skill-set I genuinely admire. Now she, too, is gone. The Guardsmen say nothing; I say nothing – we have become inured to such sights, to far worse sights. Only in death does duty end. Yet in my heart of hearts I know that I am directly responsible for Graystone's death as surely as if I had put a bolt-round through her head. I chose her, after all. I chose them all. For you, inquisitor, I chose them for you, your damn task-force. Yet you are not here to bare witness to their final sacrifices. But I am. Because in addition to choosing them, I also chose myself: a dead man walking…ah, my hand is cramping up. I will pause and eat a ration bar, though I have no appetite. I will eat and pray I have the strength to stand when it is time to move out. (This damn xenos 'artifact' I am carrying is not helping my situation either. It is still vibrating soundlessly in my satchel as it has been since I took it from the Domed Mountain. As long as I have it the Iron Hounds will never stop hunting us. Yet I dare not entrust it to anyone else, even for a brief while. It is my responsibility, I know, but I do not know how much longer I can stand to carry it. Maybe Knolls will…no…I must not…)_

 _Long ago, inquisitor, when I was a young raw cadet barely three months out of the scholam, I witnessed my mentor, Commissar Karl Kaegan, shoot five heroes of the Imperium in the back._

 _Dawnbreak was just minutes away when he followed the three men and two women out of our camp and up a large grassy hill that overlooked a vast swath of the wheat fields and farming-plantations that are the pride and joy of the argi-world of Pellose. I did not know what was happening at first. Kaegan had been up all night interrogating and cross-examining them and I had observed until an hour before midnight when he ordered me to retire and sleep. I had suddenly awoken due to some now-forgotten anxiety-dream. Without thinking I left my cot and poked my head out the tent. The camp was eerily still and silent. Just as I looked out five Guardsmen, the same five Kaegan had been questioning, came walking past: first Okjarr, the sergeant, with the other four walking two abreast behind him. None were wearing flak-armor, nor did they have their lasrifles. I was about to call out when I saw Kaegan. He was a little ways behind, striding slowly, his eyes fixed upon the troopers. He passed me by without even looking in my direction. It was all so surreal and dreamlike I wondered if I was still asleep. Without grabbing my coat, I simply pulled on my boots, left the tent and fell into step behind the commissar, heedless of the pre-dawn chill seeping through my nightshirt. Something about my mentor's body language and movements forbade any questions. I kept silent and followed him without a word. Okjarr made straight for the hill and we all followed. No-one hindered us; no-one even called out or glanced our way. The hill was deserted; no sentries were keeping watch. The Guardsmen climbed, Okjarr still leading, until all five stood on the summit, looking out at the fields and farms still hidden in shadow, awaiting the dawn. Kaegan and I halted fifteen meters from the top, the five silhouetted troopers dominating our view. They were all now standing shoulder to shoulder. Two were holding hands. None looked behind them and I wondered if they even knew we were there. Slowly the sun began to rise. The sky grew lighter. The clouds drifting invisibly above us were suddenly tinged with pink, then with orange, then with gold. Birds were singing. I was about to continue walking past Kaegan so I could join the Guardsmen, look out over the darkened farmland and watch the shadows perishing in the breaking dawn._

 _That is when Kaegan fired his backup laspistol. The sudden crack it made in the still air caused me to flinch involuntarily and I saw the trooper at the end of the small group collapse. Before he even finished falling Kaegen fired again and then again, panning left to right. All five troopers went down without a sound. None turned or tried to run, so swiftly did Keagan shoot. In the span of eight seconds they lay dead on the hilltop while the new day brightened around them. I was so stunned - I could not move or speak. I finally looked towards Kaegan, half-expecting the barrel of his pistol to be pointing in my direction. Kaegan was staring at me, his narrow face stoic and composed, his dark blue eyes black and unreadable in the still-dim light._

 _'_ _Come, Ritter,' he commanded quietly and strode back down the hill. I followed him like a bewildered lost puppy. As if on cue a detail of ten soldiers emerged from the camp and made for the hill. Apart from their abrupt appearance, Kaegan's shooting had caused no disturbance. The ten troopers passed us by without exchanging any words with the commissar. I knew then, as strange as the whole situation was, that what had just transpired had been expected, and that some forewarning had been given. I did not understand. I had been present during the beginning parts of the interrogations. The five Guardsmen had been apart of a larger detachment that had infiltrated a vast farming/harvesting complex whose inhabitants were rumored to be engaging in cultist practices. The regiment Kaegan and I were attached to had been deployed on that part of the world to supplement the local PDF if the cult problem proved to be too large or too volatile for them to handle. We were essentially glorified backup kept waiting in reserve in case something particularly terrible happened. But neither Kaegan nor the senior officers intended to sit on their thumbs until the PDF came crying to them for help. With High Command's blessing we began our own investigations, looking into those rumored hotspots no one else had gotten to yet, hoping to cast a wider net about the suspected cultists. Okjarr and his platoon soon stuck gold, but in the worst possible way: they stumbled right into the middle of a blasphemous ceremony being conducted in an attempt to summon a greater daemon. The guardsmen wasted no time; they began to purge and with no regard for their own survival called in an artillery strike which was promptly answered by our Basilisk gun-crews who were delighted to be finally be presented with a target. The complex and some ten acres of surrounding outbuildings and farmland were razed to the ground and obliterated. Okjarr and his five comrades were the only Guardsmen to emerge from the mess alive. I did not understand. Okjarr and the other were heroes deserving recommendations and medals for their bravery and their decisive actions. Yet my mentor had just gunned them all down in cold blood. He had executed them. Bewilderment gave way to anger. When we reached Kaegan's tent I followed him in and confronted him. I must have looked so ridiculous, standing there in my night-clothes, so full of righteous wrath. I was so damn young._

'You killed them!' _I cried out, struggling to hold back tears of rage. In that moment I forgot that Commissar Kaegan held my future, my career, even my very life, in his hands. All my respect for him had evaporated like the morning dew. I wanted to hurt him. I was under no illusions about what it meant to be an Imperial commissar, but this level of ruthlessness was beyond my ability to grasp. Innocent, heroic soldiers of the God-Emperor had been unjustly slain at the whim of one man and I would rather be damned then keep silent about it._

'You executed them!' _My voice sounded high and shrill to my ears, far cry from Kaegen's deep rich timbre. It was insolent and petulant. It reeked of overbearing outrage and disillusionment. It was the voice of a spoiled child who had yet to truly grow up._

 _'_ _Are you here to pass judgment on me, Cadet-Commissar Ritter?' Kaegan's voice was quiet, measured and calm. After what he'd done, it only served to make me angrier. 'Those Guardsmen were heroes!' I cried. 'Imperial heroes! They stopped a daemon from manifesting and were willing to sacrifice themselves so the cultists could all be destroyed. They should have been given medals, but you just…instead you just…'_

 _I started to weep. I could not stop myself. The injustice of it all was too much to handle. I stood before my mentor weeping, hating myself for weeping and hating him even more for causing me to weep. The passion filling me gave way to a terrible hollowness. The whole universe suddenly seemed empty and meaningless and every endeavor ever undertaken by Mankind futile and pointless. Overcome by these impressions and emotions I gagged, staggered back and dropped heavily into a camp chair next to Kaegan's desk, feeling as if I were about to vomit. I lowered my head and covered my face in my hands, struggling against the nausea and the shaking that had begun wrack my entire body. Was this to be my life until my dying day? Was this all I had to look forward to? My mind swam. I felt as if I were drowning in a black pitiless void. All is vanity…all is senseless…all is darkness…_

 _Then Kaegan's hands were on my shoulders. 'Randall, if you had truly been observing what was happening between me and those brave troopers, you would know that it was not the Emperor's Judgment that I passed on them – it was the Emperor's Mercy.'_

 _I forced myself to look into his face. I had never known my father. Orphaned at age four I had spent my entire childhood and adolescent years in the harsh, demanding environment of the Schola Progenium before being inducted into the Commissariat following my Trail of Compliance and Selection Day. Separated forever from the few friends I had, and knowing that he had the power to make or break me, I forced Kaegan to play the multiple roles of mentor, teacher and father. His approval meant more to me then anything else in the Imperium. My admiration for him knew no bounds. He had been an Imperial commissar for five decades and had mentored six other cadets before me. I wanted so badly to please him, to earn my scarlet sash with his blessing. I was so damn young, inquisitor. There was so much I still had to learn, so much I still did not understand._

 _'_ _Why, sir?' My words were punctuated by hitching sobs. 'They were not badly injured…they were not_ tainted _…were they?'_

 _'_ _No Ritter, they were not tainted…' Kaegan sighed heavily; suddenly he looked ancient, old and weary far beyond his years. I imagine that is how I must look now._

 _'_ _They were still pure, still loyal…but something happened to them, something that the inexperienced and the unobservant may mistake for disloyalty or taint, but is neither of those things. Those five Imperial 'heroes' were broken, Ritter. The unholy ceremony they disrupted involved, among other things, the ritual mutilation and sacrifice of young children and infants. What they witnessed was unspeakable in its depravity, yet I had to get as much detailed information out of them as I could, for I have little doubt that my report will soon find its way to an inquisitor's desk. '_

 _All five implored me to end their lives. Not directly, not with words, but in other, more subtle ways. The experience had broken them, shattered their will to live, robbed them of their moral and their resolve. They were dead men walking. Factor in the guilt they bore for being the only survivors of that hellish purging and the subsequent bombardment and my choice was clear: send them to the Throne; end their misery and allow them to rejoin their fallen comrades. There was nothing else I could do for them. They had done their duty; now it was my turn. I am known to this regiment as a fair and just commissar, one who does not kill arbitrarily or punish beyond reason. Those troopers expected me to do the right thing by them. I hope to the Emperor that I did.'_

 _'_ _But…' I was still confused. 'Why on the hill? Why were you so…sneaky? Stalking up behind them and shooting them all in the back like that? Why didn't you…'_

 _'_ _You mean why didn't I take them behind the storage sheds and have a firing squad take care of the rest?' Kaegan's laugh was bitter. 'For the same reasons you were just crying about: those Guardsmen are Imperial heroes. Do you think I would allow them to die in the same manner as their regiment's cowards and criminals? No. Once I had decided on a course of action and informed the necessary personnel, I had a priest brought in and he preformed the last rites. Since the night was drawing to a close I told Okjarr and his troopers to go take a walk, to go stand on the hill, watch the sunrise and that I would join them shortly. He understood my meaning; he knew what I would do. Did you not notice how they were all standing in such a straight line? They were expecting me…expecting mercy…'_

 _Kaegan paused. His face contorted again in anguish and his hands gripped my shoulders tighter._

 _'_ _I did not want them to die in such a state of hopelessness, Ritter. I did not want the horrendous things they had witnessed to have the final say. I wanted them to see something beautiful, something that has uplifted the hearts of men since the first dawn on Holy Terra. I wanted them to spend the last minutes of their lives watching the sun rise over a world that they had helped to purify and cleanse. I wanted them to die believing that their suffering had not been pointless or without meaning…I…I wanted them to go into the Emperor's Light in peace, both with themselves and with the Imperium…I should have given them more time. I almost lost my nerve, Ritter; I was almost unable to shoot. You are perfectly right: I killed five Imperial heroes – Guardsmen who should have been given medals and recommendations…but that is not what they wanted. They saw things they should have never seen, saw things you are not yet prepared to see, saw things I suffer nightmares from every time I sleep for having seen. Yet there will always be something worse: some new horror that will somehow manage to supersede the old - always.'_

 _'_ _This is not something you can learn in a classroom, or from books or holo-vids, Ritter. Only experience can teach such things. That is why you are here. The life of a commissar is a lonesome and thankless one. To bare the authority to deal out judgment and death in the Emperor's name is a terrible burden, one which often leaves you isolated and friendless. It makes many of us hard, merciless and cruel. Yet you must never abuse that authority. Never give the men under your care just cause to celebrate your death. Never order or expect a Guardsmen to do anything a commissar is unwilling to do. Learn to differentiate between honest fear and base cowardice; learn when to push and when to give. Lead from the front; be an inspiration, not a hindrance. Remember that for every Imperial life you take, be it in Mercy or in Judgment, the Emperor will hold you accountable, for we are all His children and are equals in His eyes.' Kaegan released me and stepped back. I rose to my feet, the nausea and the shaking having subsided. I stood up straight and saluted him. He was of average height, and during the three years I mentored under him I outgrew him by a foot; but he has always remained a larger-then-life figure in my mind's eye and in my memories, which remain my most precious possessions._

 _'_ _I am sorry, sir. I…I have misjudged you; and…I condemned you in my thoughts. Forgive me.'_

 _Kaegan nodded solemnly but without anger. 'I forgive and the Emperor forgives. Let it trouble you no more. Now cease your sniveling and go get yourself cleaned up, you're an unsightly mess. Put on your full dress uniform; there is a special ceremony we will both be attending shortly.'_

 _Two hours later Kaegan and I stood at the top of the hill along with our adjutants, a selected honor-guard of twenty of Okjarr's closest surviving comrades, the regiment's priests, the colour-sergeant holding the 267th's battle-banner, the colonel himself and all the available junior officers. The bodies of the five Imperial heroes had been cleaned and redressed in their finest uniforms. They lay side-by-side next to a large grave that had been dug into the hill. Their faces looked serine and at peace, a sight I have rarely seen on the visages of the battlefield dead. They were buried with full military honors, with Kaegan giving a short but eloquent speech about duty and sacrifice and how these common Guardsmen had set the highest example for us to follow, and how before the Golden Throne all the worthy dead, regardless of rank or occupation, stand together and are honored forever. Whether the colonel and the other officers came of their own violation or if Kaegan 'pushed' them into attending is something I never learned. I have stood at attention at many funerals, memorials and commemoratory ceremonies since then, yet none will ever be as beautiful or as memorable as the simple, intimate service on that grassy hill under the shining sun of the argi-world of Pellose._

 _Why am I telling you this story, inquisitor? I do not really know. The memory came to me as I ate, and so I wrote it down. My memories are all that are left to me, especially now in a world devoid of life and warmth and meaning. Since I contracted Fergon's Fever sixteen months ago the dead from my past often appear to me, despite the fever-inhibitors and anti-hallucinatory drugs the Medicea provides me with. The dead never speak, and though I know they are merely hallucinations brought on by my chronic illness, I sometimes find myself speaking to them when I am alone; when Okjarr appears I praise him for the hero he is, though this seems to sadden him. Who else remembers him now, or his comrades? Who remembers Kaegan, dead now for seventeen years, the mentor who made me who I am, the father who replaced the one I lost? Only me. I did not even know he had fallen until I received his beloved powersword and bolt-pistol, which he had left to me in his will - and it took them two years to reach me. Memories, memories, memories. They all live in my memories, both the good and the evil. They surround me day and night. All commissars ineffably leave a bloody trail in their wake, and I have been a full-fledged commissar for twenty-six years, therefor my wake is longer and bloodier then most. I remember them all: the men I saved; the men I killed; the men I led; the men I failed. Officers and grunts – they are all one and the same…all bleed the same…_

 _But these final few, these last brave desperate few, in whose company I am likely to perish…they are the finest warriors I have ever had the pleasure of serving beside, despite all their flaws…my dutiful bodyguards…_

 _Combat-medic Abbi Wess covers the still-warm body of Graystone with a spare blanket and sits back on her heels, her pretty face a mask of quiet anger. Tucking a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, she reaches into a breast-pocket and withdraws a pack of Ilos. As worn-out and stressed as she is, she has showed remarkable restraint in her smoking; the pack is still quiet full. She knows that it is not healthy, and I know I should reprimand her, but if anyone deserves a smoke right now it is her. I say nothing as she lights up and she shoots me a sardonic glance before exhaling explosively. She bares a particular sort of affection for me, likely because I spared her life when her bed-hopping threatened the stability of our officer cadre. She was the lover the 89th's current major, Heffener, but she grew bored of him and went to Colonel Brayce, who refused her, preferring to stick to his marriage vows and because of his close friendship with his XO. So she came to me next, thinking a lonely commissar would welcome her with open arms. I welcomed her with a good slap, something which was long overdue. The lovesick Heffner was furious and made threats, as if his colonel and commissar were to blame for his lover's actions rather then Wess herself. I was not having that. Commissar Udett and I got Wess and Heffener alone in an interrogation room together where we outlined in non-negotiable terms how their relationship was to be conducted from that point on, and that one more incident would bring the Emperor's Judgment down upon them both. Since that time Wess has remained faithful to the good major, and the good major has not dared to threaten me again either openly or discreetly._

 _Formally the 89th was an all-male unit, but after our bloody campaign against the tau on Sepnir a mix-gendered Joskollian regiment was consolidated with ours to bring it back up to strength. Their losses were more grievous our own, with Udett being the only senior-ranking officer to have survived. Wess had a history of sleeping with senior officers and causing infighting even then, and it was only her looks combined with her cool-headed professionalism under fire that kept her from being stood against a wall. I am rather inclined to think Udett has stepped out with her also in the past, but knows better then to let himself be compromised by a serious relationship. In my mind he is compromised, which is the main reason I chose to bring Wess with us to Vespid as our chief medic. I still do not trust her. When the drill-abbots are away the students will play. Though I knew my chances of getting off this planet alive were slim, I still continue to keep the health and the coherence of the 89th firmly in mind, as is befitting a regimental commissar. Though Udett and I are equals in the eyes of the Commissariat, he differs to my seniority and does not try to undermine my authority. Doubtless he is irked by my choice in medical personal, but knows me well enough not to interfere with my decisions. Wess is a skilled medic and the mission demanded one, naturally – I do not need to justify my reasoning to anyone. Major Heffener and Udett will be better off in the end, even if they never realize it._

 _It is time to move out. Landon has stirred and is now on his feet, the blanket swept back over his shoulders like a cloak. Crawley stands also, still keeping his eyes on me, while Sorren ceases his pacing and slings his vox-castor onto his back. Rollins looks up from his journal and quickly follows suit with his tank and flamer. Knolls is still out of it; I shall have to wake him._

 _'You need a stimm-shot, commissar?' Wess asks._

 _Her voice is somewhat raspy, but we all sound that way now. I grit my teeth. I am not ready to stand, but we cannot stay here forever; especially now that we have accomplished your mission, inquisitor. During our last battle with the Hounds when Lieutenant Perrell was killed and Graystone received her fatal injury, I hewed off the head of what I assumed to be the leader, as it was the largest and most driven of the pack. But by the time I had done so twelve more Guardsmen had perished in the act of dispatching the leader's eight smaller but no less lethal companions. As much as I would like to believe that pack was the last of the Hounds, I know that there must be more of them still in the mountains and that soon they will find me again. The xenos artifact in my possession calls out to them; they cannot help but be drawn to it._

 _'Commissar?' Wess seems genuinely concerned._

 _'No, medic,' I lie. 'I just need a few minutes…'_

 _I am so weak. We all are. No-one can understand why. We are not sick. Wess has assured Landon and I that there is nothing wrong with us – nothing at all. We are all, according to her diagnostor, perfectly healthy (apart from me having Fergon's Fever) given our circumstances. Yet our symptoms are all the same; they began the day(?) we arrived and have progressively worsened the longer we linger on this planet: we are fatigued, listless, uncoordinated in our movements, and, most alarming of all, undergoing rapid inexplicable weight loss. Landon has always been a thickset beefy man who had no qualms about using his body mass as a weapon, both against the Imperium's foes and belligerent Guardsmen (and certain other junior officers) despite his advancing years, but since we deployed on Vespit he has lost over fifty pounds. Rollins, who is a giant bear of a man, has lost almost eighty._

 _These two men are the most obvious examples – but we are all suffering from it. I am nothing now but skin and bones; what lean corded muscle I was able to build up following the first onset of my illness has been stolen from me again and now I have once more become the true embodiment of my nickname: the 'Scarecrow'. Kaegan's bolt-pistol and power-sword hang from my narrow hips like laden weights, encumbering my steps. My storm coat and cuirass have become almost too burdensome for my wasted frame. My strength is being sapped by this piteous planet; we being drained, sucked dry, fed upon – we are dying._

 _We are not starving. We have food. Enough ration bars to last three weeks, longer still if we ration them because there are only eight of us now. Enough water also, if we are careful. This mission was only supposed to take two weeks all told. That was the time stipulated in the briefing. Yet now I do not know if I have spent five days on Vespit or five years; it seems like we have always been here. After we landed it did not take us long to discover that our chronos had stopped. Every last one; though a few (including mine) were spinning like crazy – spinning clockwise. None worked properly. Engineseer Kreeve could do nothing about it; just like he could do nothing when our Tauroxes and our Tauros RAVs inexplicably broke down one-by-one; their machine-spirits are also dead, he had said, all dead and dying – like this world. Like us._

 _Vespit is classified as a death-world. This classification is somewhat misleading. Most people think of Catachan when they think of death worlds. But now that I have spent time (how much, really?) on Vespit, I know it to be the truest, most pure example of that type of planet. Catachan is full of life, home to a whole biodiversity of plants, birds, mammals and insects; it has an ecosystem; it is alive; it begets life._

 _Vespit is dead. It is a dead-world; a skeleton-world. There is no life. To even call it a desert would be a great disservice to actual desert-planets. No birds soar across her reddened skies; no biological animals, dangerous or otherwise, roam her forests and fields – there_ _ **are**_ _no forests or fields for them to roam. No insects swarm or bite. No reptiles scurry through the fine ash-like sand nor sun themselves on the flat polished stones. There is no grass, no flowers, no ferns, no moss, bushes or trees of any kind. No bodies of water…nothing. A waste-world, a corpse-world…_

 _The air here is chilled, dry and thin. It is also utterly still. So far, there has been no wind, not even the faintest rumor of a breeze. We talk in whispers; any noise we make, however minor, carries out for miles. Our steps, our hushed voices, our very breath, are the only sounds that exist. Once, I gave the order to halt and commanded the men to keep perfectly silent – and it was as if we had all been struck deaf. Only our pounding hearts could be heard inside our heads. Never has solitude been so fully realized. Never has isolation been so absolute. Never has desolation been so complete._

 _But I am writing only of the world itself. Vespit is not the only contributor to our misery. As oppressive as this dead-world is, the sun is so much worse. The sun of Vespit does not rise or set. From our position on the planet's surface, it hangs just above the flat horizon facing the mountains in a state of perpetual dusk. Vespit does not turn upon its axis, therefore only one-half of it is exposed to sunlight while the other half dwells in the shade of an endless night. The sun of Vespit is old; old and dying. It is remote, cold and red; it observes us like a baleful crimson eye suspended in a blood-tinged sea. There are no clouds. The stars are visible. During our last stop I stared at it with my naked eyes for several minutes and when I turned away there was no imprint of its light behind my eyelids. It is more of a moon then a sun; fitting, as Vespit has no moon. The sun rules over all, a failing light burning weakly over a failed world, timeless and unchanging...Why are we here? We should not be here - we should be back at Nessterra I, awaiting deployment. That is where we are supposed to be. Does the rest of the 89th even exist now? Or has the civil war of that hive-world swallowed them up? Are we the only ones still alive? I need to stop thinking about these things. It is futile, as futile as...no, I will not say it. It will insult the pride of Joskoll. Our time here is not fruitless or meaningless...no...I am so tried. I am a fool for not taking proper rest when I can, but this is not the sort of weariness that can be resolved by sleep, it is deeper and more complicated then that. Yet as weary as I am, my spirit is restless - I wish this ordeal would end soon; it is the waiting that grinds one down...and on a world were time cannot be measured it is as if I have spent my entire life simply...waiting._

 _All of us just waiting down here, waiting to die...Damn it, where are you, inquisitor? Why have you left us? We have accomplished what you required of us. We have your precious xenos artifact/device. What will the fallen have died for if its guardians reclaim it? Do you not care? Will you not come and claim it for yourself? We are waiting for you, and we are being hunted and attacked while we wait. We will not last much longer if you remain aloof. We are dying, so slowly, so…gently. In truth the Hounds need not come. Only you must come, inquisitor, or our struggles will have been for nothing. I will end this journal now, and condemn you to the silence you have condemned us. I am not afraid to die. I am afraid of having to look into the eyes of the Guardsmen and have them know, by my own eyes, that they are not leaving Vespit alive. Warp take you, Inquisitor Setherin – you have spat in the face of loyalty, kicked the bent back of duty and mocked the pain of obedience. The Emperor's Judgment awaits you – and in His shadow I will rejoice when my god avenges me._

 _~ Regimental Commissar Randall Ritter; Joskollian 89th Light Mechanized (consolidated)_

 **A/N: Here Ritter's journal comes to an end. The remainder of the story is told in third person.**

 **A Word of Explanation to the Followers/Favers of the Original Story: About a year ago I uploaded this novella-length Warhammer 40k story to this site. A few months later I foolishly deleted it after deciding to submit it to the Black Library's open submission window in 2017. After struggling with re-editing it from US to UK English, and eliminating the final chapter due to major lore-violations, I gave up and scrapped my chance of possibly getting published. I am currently re-writing the final third chapter (It will be very different then the original, as the source material has been lost) and welcome any constructive criticism. **


	2. The Stand

**II**

'Commissar Ritter?'

Sergeant Paull Landon stares gravely down at the seated, much-occupied political officer. Ritter has not ceased from writing in his small pocket journal since the final remnant of the Joskollian task-force took temporary shelter in a dry dark cave following their last battle with the Iron Hounds. The sergeant has been wondering about the commissar – and about himself. The moral officer looks as if he is on the verge of death, but Landon knows from past experience to never underestimate a black-coat regardless of how bad they may look or how injured they might be, especially the if that black-coat is the Scarecrow. Sixteen months ago the entire regiment had been certain Ritter was going to leave them for the Sea of Souls after being stricken by a terrible fever while serving in the trenches of Vippone, but the commissar had refused to depart, though he hadn't been quite the same man afterwards. He had finally emerged from his sickroom under his own power pale and emancipated, his lean face like that of a snarling cadaver, his keen gray-green eyes fever-bright and piercing. He had to take extensive medications and rumors spread among the rank-and-file that he saw and spoke with the shades of the dead, having come so close and for having lingered so long at the gates of death himself. If the Joskollians hadn't feared, respected or covertly admired their regimental commissar before, they certainly did now.

But Ritter's star is in its decent. Some vital part of him had been sacrificed – and is still being sacrificed – to the ongoing illness. He tires quickly, leads fewer charges, and his intimidating presence at the frontlines has become the exception rather then the norm. He can still give blood-rousing speeches and howl out blood-curdling battle-cries, but his voice has lost a particular edge, and when he overdoes himself it peters into a hissing rasp. Some say that Ritter is still dying, bit by bit, suffering the Emperor's judgment slowly for past sins, but not many believe this, certainly not Landon; the Scarecrow is just simply too stubborn to die.

Paull Landon has served in the Imperial Guard for sixty-seven years and is one of the oldest surviving officers in the Joskollian 89th. He has witnessed much and done much, and has seen many senior officers of all kinds come and go and perish. He is indifferent to their power-plays, their thirst for glory, their desire to rise still higher through the ranks of the Guard. He knows of Ritter's valiant if doomed attempts to get him promoted, and though he has always been content to remain a sergeant he respects the commissar greatly for noticing his labors and for trying to honor them. When Ritter began to assemble his task-force for the Vespit mission Landon volunteered without hesitation, just as he had joined the Guard with hesitation the day after turning eighteen. When a man is full of the fire of youth he yearns to prove himself by doing great deeds and having exciting adventures. Neither Landon nor Ritter are young anymore, but despite age and ill-health both men are still young in their hearts, still carrying the fire, even after all the horror and death they've been partial to; besides, Vespit had seemed so…interesting.

Now Landon knows the truth. The truth about Vespit, the true nature of the man behind the mission, and, most loathsome of all, a truth about himself. It is over. He can endure no longer. He will wait no more. The fire has died. The sergeant stares down at Ritter, willing for him to look up; he must see Ritter's face, must look into his eyes, before he can be sure that the commissar still has it in him to carry on, to complete the mission, to do whatever needs to be done. Ritter, the sleeves of his coat and tunic rolled up to his elbows despite the cold, his battered cap resting on the ground beside him, his collar-length white-blond hair unkempt and oily, his gloveless white hands gripping his closed journal, finally looks up at him. Their eyes lock. Landon is satisfied. The Scarecrow will not fail. The mission will succeed.

'Sir, there's something you need to know,' the sergeant says quietly.

Since their arrival on this world they have all spoken in whispers, save only in the heat of battle, for the silence of Vespit is too loud to allow them to speak otherwise. Ritter slips his journal into the satchel resting on his lap. He pulls his peaked cap on over his head. Slowly, he folds his long legs under him and stands, leaning against the cave wall for support. When he reaches full height Landon's nose is at the level of the commissar's throat; the sergeant looks up and meets Ritter's eyes once more.

 _'_ _No.'_ Ritter's voice sounds as if someone forced him to swallow crushed razor-blades. His eyes narrow. He recognizes the look in Landon's face, knows what he is about to say. 'No. I forbid it. Not you…not like this…'

'I won't say that I'm sorry, Ritter, because I'm not – not this time,' Landon says, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice. Slowly he unslings his lasrifle from his shoulder. 'Nor will I ask you to forgive me, for what I'm doing excludes me from all forgiveness. I understand that – and I accept it.'

Bending his knees, almost kneeling, Landon gently lays his lasrifle down in the ashy sand at Ritter's boots. Slowly he straightens and looks up at the commissar. Ritter's fever-bright eyes are flashing with livid fury – and pain. 'Pick up your gun, sergeant,' he rasps. 'Now.'

Landon slightly spreads his empty hands and calmly shakes his head. 'I'm finished Ritter. I can't do this anymore, not like this, not on this desolate death-planet your inquisitor has dumped us on. There's no point to it. I'm now guilty of dereliction of duty; you have full command of the task-force. Do what you must, commissar – it's over.'

Ritter's face now resembles the ferocious visage of a rabid Joskollian woodswolf – yet his blazing eyes are wet. 'You would do this to me, Landon? To _yourself_? In front of your own soldiers? What –'

Landon turns his back on the commissar. Slowly he walks to the mouth of the cave. Wess, Crawley, Sorren and Rollins stare after him in horrified disbelief, stunned beyond words. Landon does not look at them; he knows he will loose his nerve if he does. He does not need to glance behind him to know that Ritter is following him like a second shadow; he does not need to feel the hairs on his neck rising to know that Ritter's bolt-pistol is pointing directly at the back of his head.

He steps out of the cave. He begins to walk, he strides long and purposeful. The everlasting silence of Vespit fills his ears. The eternally red dusk-dawn of Vespit fills his eyes. The flat empty horizon of Vespit stretches out before him under the baleful bloody eye of a dying sun. The air is cold and still. There are no clouds; there is no wind. He is weeping. It is over. After all this time, after decades of loyal service to the God-Emperor, his tour of duty is finally at an end. Staggering into the wastes Landon looks about him; for the first and last time he takes in the true nature of his environment, of his surroundings. He thinks back on all the theatres of war he's been in and how appallingly _noisy_ they all were – so full of Guardsmen shouting and screaming, artillery thumping, lasbolts crackling, bolters stuttering, rockets whistling, tanks blazing; his foes roaring, gibbering, chanting, cursing, snarling, wailing and shooting as they charged him and his men; his own shouts as he charged and shot at them – but not here. Not on Vespit…

Landon is about to die on a world that has existed in a state of utter peace and quiet for millions of years, a world that has likely not known the horror of war in the entire span of its existence. How could he have not realized what a beautiful place this is, what a unique and precious planet this is? Its horror was no more a horror to him – Vespit is a bastion of tranquility. It is a preservation of a type of paradise Mankind can no longer comprehend, it is…

'Landon…' Commissar Ritter's raspy whisper fills the universe. Landon stops but does not turn around. He knows what he will see. The Scarecrow is weeping, silently weeping even as he keeps his pistol fixed firmly on his head; the former sergeant does not want to witness the commissar weeping over him. That would be too much.

'Landon…how did you know about the inquisitor?'

Landon smiles. Such a relief it is to finally be able to speak freely and truthfully.

'I've been waiting for this day a long time; been waiting for it fifty-five years, Ritter. For decades I've been waiting for someone to find out, to suspect, to discover, to report my secret - but no one ever did, and I never worked up the courage to self-confess. Then, not long after we got abandoned here, I plucked the truth from your mind during one of your…fits, I guess. I like to stay informed. How else do you think I've survived this far, lasted for as long as I have? _By staying informed_. Its not that I enjoy poking into peoples' minds, I'm just looking for some honest, reliable intel; when it comes to my survival and the survival of my men, I don't like being left in the dark. But now…now I know the Holy Inquisition is behind this, I figured it's time to come clean. I'm an old dog, Ritter. I won't survive long on the Black Ships or in an inquisitor's interrogation cell. I'm tired, too – flat-out plain fatigued, like you. You've tried to get me promoted six times, though I always knew those vicious bluebloods would never allow a farm-boy like me to become a lieutenant or a captain. Never wanted that, anyways. But if there's anything left in me you still admire, if you're still willing to see me as a loyal soldier of the Emperor and not merely a warp-touched freak, well, I'd be grateful if you'd just do your duty and finish me here and now before your inquisitor gets wind of me. It's well within your rights, after all. I'd rather my soldiers view me as a broken coward then as an accursed psyker. It that too much to ask for, Randall?'

There is a brief silence that seems to last for an eternity.

'No Paull, it is not. May the God-Emperor forgive his servants their sins…and may He remember that we are only men.'

Blinking away his tears, Landon lifts his head and stares straight into the waning heart of a dying sun. 'Thank you, Scarecrow.'

With swift, daft movements Ritter springs forward and throws his right arm across Landon's chest and throat while he drives Kaegan's powersword through the Guardsmen's heart from behind with his left. The powered blade pierces Landon's flak-armor effortlessly and explodes out of his chest in a spray of dark arterial blood. The old sergeant feels a split second of agonizing pain before the Light claims him and the insidious voices whispering in his mind are silenced forever. His legs buckle and Ritter falls with him, cradling his body, his sword sizzling and steaming in the gore of his eighty-third Imperial victim. In the crimson sunlight the commissar's pale face is as bloody as his blade. Kaegan's bolt-pistol remains in its holster. It never left it. The silence of Vespit remains unbroken.

Panting with exertion, Ritter withdraws the blade and lays out Landon's body on the ash-sand soil. He wipes away the blood oozing from the man's mouth with his sash and closes his one empty gray eye. The commissar lets the last of his tears fall and spatter on Landon's motionless chest. After this, he will never weep again.

Like an echo the words he had written return with perfect clarity to his memory: _'Lead on, Sergeant Landon; chart a sure course to your doom and I will follow in your weary wake like a shadow-crow in anticipation of the slaughter and death to come. It is the only thing we both have left to look forward to.'_

Am I damned? Ritter thinks, wiping his eyes. Truly damned? But he knows the answer to that question: he has been damned since the day he'd earned his scarlet sash. Commissar Kaegan had gotten drunk that night and his words to the newly-promoted moral officer had been dark and troubling.

'All commissars are damned, Ritter,' Kaegan had said, his eyes glazed, his shaking hand gripping his glass of old-foiz. 'Like inquisitors, we are damned to stand in the Emperor's _Shadow_ , damned to keep unending vigilance on our God so as to ensure His continued loyalty to His mighty Imperium, even as we ensured the loyalty of the Imperial Guard to Him in life…'

Ritter groans and his whole body sags. Despair claws at his heart. He has walked so long in the shadow of death he is almost unable to conceive of a state or a life outside of it, but now, in the face of a hopeless situation were death alone can be the only outcome, he again considers succumbing to the persevering temptation to be finished with it all fully and completely. An image in his mind shows his wasted body slumped over beside the broken man he has just slain, Kaegan's sword driven though his own heart, his hands clasping the hilt. There is no mercy in this universe – except that which we gift to our own selves…

'Commissar! _Commissar Ritter!_ '

At the concerned voice calling out across the still air, Ritter's mind shakes free from memories and thoughts of suicide. He stands, and is stunned at how far he has walked into the wastes after Landon. His sense of distance is as nonexistent as his sense of time. He glances again at Landon's face; like Okjarr and his comrades from long ago, the sergeant is also at peace. Turning his back on the dead psyker, Ritter looks towards the mountains. He sees Knolls pelting across the flatlands, stirring up puffing clouds of ash-dust as he runs to rejoin the commissar. Behind him, double-timing it, come the final four: the blonde Wess, the bald Rollins, the agitated Sorren and the nimble Crawley. They are still faithful, still loyal. He's damned them all. They heard Landon mention the inquisitor. They will have questions. Honor demands he answer them truthfully; the mission demands that the inquisitor remains an unknown entity. The mission is damned too, Ritter thinks: all of us lost…doomed…damned…forsaken…he looks at Kaegan's sword and again the temptation presents itself. It is a beautiful weapon, its hilt decorated with the black-burnished winged skull-emblem of the Commissariat, with red jewels set in the skull's eyes and the High Gothic legend _Bellum Vita et Vita est Mortis*_ engraved in archaic script upon the length of the blade. The bolt-pistol is also a priceless treasure, with etched engravings of Imperial warrior-saints and battle-hymns gracing its silver-burnished muzzle and stock. They are no mere ceremonial weapons; they were Kaegan's most prized possessions, gifted to him personally by the Imperial Commander of the industrial-world Askondor II in the early years of his career after personally saving the life of the son of the planetry-ruler. Ritter witnessed the many foes of Mankind from orks to eldar die by way of that blade and bolter while serving under the commissar countless times. Not once did they ever fail Kaegan, except in that final far-flung battle that sent him to the Emperor's shadow and deposited them into the hands of his former cadet. Nor have they yet failed Ritter. But they remain Kaegan's all the same. Ritter cannot think of them in any other context. He knows he dishonors their existence with his thoughts. Kaegan's weapons do not belong in the hands of the faint-hearted, the doubting or the forsaken. Certainly not a burned-out moral officer looking for a convenient way out. Kaegan himself would have never entertained such thoughts. Had _he_ felt forsaken in the end, or did death come too swiftly for him to feel anything at all? Death has been stalking Ritter inch by inch, taking its time, drawing out his agony. Is he damned for wishing it to end sooner rather then later?

'You've forsaken me,' Ritter whispers raggedly, not knowing if he is speaking of the inquisitor or to Kaegan or to the Emperor himself. 'You've forsaken me…'

 _'_ _No, Ritter – not forsaken; not by us and not by Him…'_

That familiar, much-missed voice comes from his right. Ritter's breath catches in his throat. It is the first time one of the dead has spoken. He turns. Immaculate and regal-looking in his full Commissarial panoply, Karl Kaegan regards him solemnly. He is not like the other shades Ritter often sees. His mentor's face and body radiate a soothing gold-white light. Though the blood-pall cast by the crimson star does not taint him and his elongated shadow does not rise up to meet him, the spectre of Kaegan seems more substantial and solid then the sun or the mountains.

 _'_ _Your mission is not yet ended, Ritter. You were given orders and an objective to accomplish. Your soldiers approach – will you not rally and lead them? Your enemies approach – will you not stand and deny them? Shall despair and hopelessness have the final say, Randall?'_

'No – no sir, commissar,' Ritter is shaking. He wants this to be real. He is weary of fever-dreams and hallucinations. His mentor cannot be here. Not in this place. Not like this. But he is.

'Why, Kaegan – why did you leave them to me? They should have gone into the grave with you. I am not worthy to bear them. Not now.'

 _'_ _You needed them more then I,'_ Kaegan replies in his rich smooth voice. _'Of all the cadets I mentored you were the one who truly took my teachings to heart and strove to embody them in your own life. Your path has not been kind to you, yet you still carry on, despite the weaknesses of your body and mind. Wield my weapons, Ritter. Smite our foes; freely I received them, freely I gave them in return. Use them with my blessing, and know that I am always with you, regardless of how dark the days or how terrible the battles. Always remember that, Ritter - you are never alone. Only in death does duty end – and yours has not ended yet.'_

'Yes, sir; I will remember.' Ritter grips the hilt of his mentor's sword tightly. He draws in a deep lungful of cold stale air. The feelings of guilt and doubt ensnaring his thoughts and emotions fall away. His mind is clearer then it has been in sixteen months. He raises the sword before his face and salutes Kaegan. His old mentor smiles.

 _'_ _Ave Imperator.'_

Commissar Ritter turns and walks back towards the Joskollians, his shoulders back, his head high, his strides long and purposeful, the tattered wings of his greatcoat wafting behind him. With a yelp of dismay Knolls stumbles in his fatigue and falls heavily before the political officer, dusty and panting. Ritter grins down at him, and then offers his adjutant his free hand.

'On your feet, Knolls; the mission is not yet done. It is time to finish this!'

'Yes, sir! Great!' Knolls gasps as Ritter helps him to his feet. He is smiling like a child on Emperor's Day who has received the gift most wanted. He glances at Ritter's drawn sword with his remaining good eye. 'You executed that coward, huh sir?'

'Sergeant Landon is not a coward, Knolls,' Ritter tells him sternly. "He was a sick old man who needed the Emperor's Mercy. Do not speak ill of him.'

'Okay, sir,' Knolls adjusts his helmet, checks his lasrifle's power supply and falls into step behind the commissar. 'Do you want me to carry the satchel, sir? I know you're tired of doing it. I won't mind.'

Ritter glances down at the compact grox-leather satchel bumping against his right thigh. He feels the Artifact still vibrating, even through the hermetically-sealed ebony strongbox that protects it. The small oblong object had fit perfectly in his hand when he had first picked it up. Smooth and polished, its marble-like surface had glowed with a soft orange-blue light at his touch. It was also heavy, like a stone. As he grew progressively weaker Ritter had begun to feel its weight more keenly. Now he hardly notices. It is just another part of him, like his bolt-pistol; just another burden he must bare, and he is a man who has been molded, trained and honed to bear burdens such as this. Having cast aside doubt and fear Ritter feels light and high-hearted. Kaegan is correct, as always. The Scarecrow has his orders and a mission to complete.

'No need, Knolls. It does not bother me anymore. We are going to –'

 _'_ _Contact!'_ Sorren's shout shatters the stillness. _'I have contact…!'_

Ritter starts to run. Sorren is kneeling down, speaking urgently into the headset of his vox. The other three are gathered about him, their faces lit with hope and expectation. The commissar feels it too: hope, such as when a man dying of thirst in the desert sees the shimmer of water off in the distance.

Sorren looks up. 'Commissar! He wants to speak with you, the inquisitor –'

 _Cak-crak...! Cak-crak..! Cak-crak..!_

A new sound, but a familiar one; one they have all heard before, one they prayed to never hear again. Ritter halts so abruptly he stumbles to his knees and Knolls almost runs into him. The main reason the strike-team was able to outlast and outfight the Hounds for so long is because the creatures are incapable of hunting in silence. On Vespit every sound is amplified and magnified to such a degree that a sudden sneeze can echo for miles. The Hounds are heard before the surveyor picks them up, the space between each attack giving the Joskollians enough of time to prepare for their assault. But now the final remnant is out in the open with no place to take cover, nothing to put their backs to. They cannot make it back to the cave in time; the Hounds will cut them off.

 _'_ _Warriors of Joskoll! Rally to me!'_ Ritter cries as Knolls grabs him by the collar and drags him upright. 'The bad dogs are coming, sir!' his aide pants. 'They're coming! Time to purge!'

Ritter draws his bolt-pistol. There is one fresh clip inside and one remaining spare attached to his weapon's belt. Fourteen bolter-rounds, his power sword, three frag grenades, a smoke grenade, a combat knife, spare power packs and his backup laspistol in its shoulder-holster. Kaegan had taught him to always be prepared for anything and everything, and Ritter has done his best to follow the senior commissar's advice. In addition to his own gear, Knolls also carries Ritter's backup chainsword, which Ritter rarely uses but allows his aide to wield as a melee weapon, much to the devout man's delight. Shrugging off Knolls's steadying hand Ritter continues to run, knowing he should be fleeing in the opposite direction and putting as much distance between himself – between the Artifact, rather – and the Hounds as he can, but he cannot bring himself to abandon the Joskollians, not after all this time.

 _Cak-krak…! Cak-krak…! CakkrakCakkrakCakkrak…!_

'I see the bastards!' Rollins roars as he brings his flamer to bear, his eyes blazing in his soot-smeared face behind his goggles.

'I saw 'em first, Rolly,' Crawley retorts, kneeling and sighting down his long-las. 'I count six…no eight…no, ah _damn_ …'

Now there are eleven distinct dust-trails converging on the huddled Guardsmen as the Hounds enter the wastes. By some foul xenos-sorcery the translucent hides of the creatures are able to warp and blend in with the hues and colors of their surrounding environment, camouflaging the guardians and rendering them nearly invisible to human eyes. Ritter suspects that if the task-force had encountered these creatures when they had been newly left on Vespit to guard the Artifact they would have never been able to retrieve the device at all, much less play keep-away with it. The Hounds are old, very old; Vespit has worked its insidious influence on them just as it has on the Imperials: the Hound's double-joints crack and snap with age, the unseen gears and pistons grind and shriek with corrosion. A few the Joskolloans encountered were actually visible owing to a failure of the Hound's skin to synchronize correctly to its surroundings, leading to the theory that the Hounds are also slowly dying, their interior workings failing with the passing of time. They are fully mechanized beings, containing no trace of bio-matter or anything resembling living flesh; creatures whose kind has long been forbidden by the Imperium of Man. Despite their weakened state, they have hunted the Guardsmen with a single-minded determination unhampered by the fear of death or a sense of self-preservation, their numbers steadily diminishing along with those of the task-force. The Hounds are loping rather then running, their vitality waning swiftly now with non-stop exertion and continued tracking, the outlines of their near-invisible bodies blurring and shifting as they approach. The Joskollians have two minutes maximum to ready themselves.

Sorren is still talking rapidly into the vox while Wess, Rollins and Crawley form a loose a firing line between him and the approaching foe. 'Come and get it, cog-dogs!' Rollins cries, readying his flamer. 'Yeah, you fekking pieces of xenos-crap!' Wess screams as she takes aim along with Crawley, who whispers the Litany of Accuracy as he draws a bead on his selected target: _'Emperor, grant me the sight of the eagle, the calm of the breeze, the patience of a saint and the skill to smite the foe from afar!'_

Pride fills Ritter. To die with these soldiers will be an honor. They have just lost a long-serving, much-loved leader yet their moral holds and they stand their ground. Death is certain now. The inquisitor has returned too late. Ritter no longer cares. Soon he will be rid of Setherin and be free of the mess the cowardly man so callously left them in; soon he will be liberated of the fevers and the hallucinations and from having to look at himself in the mirror every day and be confronted by the sickly, barely-functional wreck he has become. The mission has failed through no fault of the task-force. Let Setherin squander his own troops and resources for his precious Artifact, let him dare to set foot on Vespit himself and retrieve Artifact with his own hand. The Joskollians have done their duty.

 _'_ _Joskoll will not yield!'_ Ritter howls the battle-cry of the 89th with ferocity and feeling, even though it brings blood to the back of his throat. His aide dashes past him to join the firing-line, brandishing his laspistol in one hand and Ritter's revved chainsword in the other.

 _'_ _Joskoll will not yield!'_ Wess, Rollins and Knolls roar in unison. The empty landscape of Vespit shudders with the force of their collective cry.

'Sir, sir, the inquisitor…" Sorren holds out the headset to Ritter, his hazel eyes wide with fear and awe. Ritter bares his teeth in scorn. Deciding that he doesn't want to spend his final mortal moments explaining or justifying himself to the nasal-voiced pale-eyed son of a grox or listening to him justify himself, the commissar stows his sword and sizes the headset from his vox-operator.

'Inquisitor Ignass Setherin, you can go to lowest of all hells _._ That is all I have to say to you – Ritter out.'

Terminating the connection he tosses the headset back to a stunned Sorren who stares back at him in horror. Ritter grins wickedly. He hasn't felt this good in months. 'I can't be eloquent all the time, Sorren. That bastard shafted us good and proper so he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty. That makes him a coward in my book, and I don't take kindly to cowards.'

'But commissar, he…'

'…is an inquisitor, yes I know; but he's still an arsehole and I've never suffer arseholes kindly either.'

'But…'

'Does Joskoll yield, Brett Sorren?'

'I…no, sir…no it fekking doesn't.' Sorren stands, primes his lasrifle and takes his place on the line beside Knolls.

There is a sharp _crack_ and one of the trails terminates in a billow of dust that obscures the now-visible body of a falling Hound. 'Number eight...' Norman Crawley whispers to himself, his keen eyes alight with satisfaction. These are kills-shots worthy of medals.

'Remember to watch out for their tails!' Wess reminds them.

'Yeah, you remember what happened to Lieutenant Perrell?' Knolls does not understand the concept of moral, having served his entire time in the Guard in a state of simple Emperor/Ritter-trusting positivity.

'I'd rather not remember what happened to Lieutenant Perrell, thank you,' mutters Sorren.

 _Crack!_ Another Hound stumbles but doesn't go down. 'Fek!' Crawley snarls. He fires again and this time his target falls. 'Number nine…'

'Save some for us, glory-hog," Wess chides.

'Shut your pretty trap and let me focus,' Crawley retorts.

'Can you tell of there's an Alpha among them?' Rollins asks.

'Yeah, there's two, actually, so we're doubly fekked,' the sniper snaps.

'Great, that's just…great,' Sorren moans, bouncing in place. 'Permission to run screaming pointlessly into the wastes, commissar?'

'Permission denied, trooper,' Ritter says grimly as he draws Kaegan's blade and reactivates it. "The Emperor's Throne awaits us. I'd like to be able to tell Him that none of you were found wanting.'

'I know what _I_ want: a stiff drink of anything and everything,' confesses Rollins. 'Will stiff drinks be served to the Emperor's faithful warriors, Ritter?'

'I…really don't see why not…' Ritter considers the question thoughtfully.'Otherwise He will have to contend with millions of unhappy Space Wolves, and who would want that?'

'What about beautiful women?' Sorren wonders aloud, trying to distract himself from his rapidly-approaching death. 'Will there be beautiful woman, too?'

'There is no reason why billions of attractive Imperial females should be excluded, Sorren,' Ritter says with great patience.

'Also the Adeptus Soroitas will be there,' Rollins reminds. 'That should be enough.'

'Yeah, except they'll all be fawning on the Emperor rather than paying attention to either of you,' Wess snaps.

'But we'll be with the Emperor and that's good; that's what matters, right commissar?' Knolls seeks reassurance, unable to appreciate the conversation fully.

'Yes, Knolls, that is all that matters," Ritter concedes. "Soon we will be joined with the holy warriors from all the ages and before Him we will stand as a unified and invincible army, to trample the minions of Chaos and the haughty xenos under our feet, and of Mankind's reign there will be no end – _for the Emperor!_ '

 _'_ _FOR THE EMPEROR!'_

"Well, I still hope there will be –"

 _'_ _Will you all kindly shut it so I can fekking focus!'_ Crawley hisses. He repeats the Litany of Accuracy and _crack!_ another Hound hits the dust. "Number ten…"

'Noise discipline,' orders Ritter.

'Here they come, sir!' Knolls cries joyfully.

Whether because their dying systems can no longer maintain their aurora of invisibility or because they now understand that such a defense is proving to be useless, the surviving eight Hounds have done away with their camouflage and finish their charge towards the Imperial line uncloaked and fully visible. The Joskollians call them 'hounds' only because their heads are canid-like in shape and design. The rest of their machine-bodies are feline-like, sleek and supple, with long whip-like tails capable of reaching far over and around their heads. Their tails are their most lethal weapons, their tips pointed, their lengths cunningly serrated, used as living spears to impale their foes or as lashes to slice at faces and blind eyes. The eight digits of their paws are long and the bigger Hounds can crudely grasp their prey, shredding flesh at will with their retractable claws. Their legs are double-jointed and they can turn and spin on a coin; their mouths are filled with evenly arrayed serrated fangs and their eyes – two centered together on front of their faces, the other two positioned on either side of their narrow heads – glow a dull malevolent orange. In their default state – before only assumed once killed - their semitransparent skin soaks in and their inner workings reflect light, so now the Hounds that advance upon Ritter's tired group are as crimson as Vespit's dying sun: blood-tainted monsters as relentless and pitiless as any Necron. The smallest is the size of a mastiff, the two Alphas are as big as fully-grown bull grox and these refuse be felled by hotshots. Crawley's lasbolts crackle off their smooth reddened hides. The jaws of all eight grind together, gashing and growling, the hideous fangs standing out starkly on lipless gums.

"Holy Throne…" Sorren breathes upon finally witnessing the creatures in all their inhuman glory.

"Bloody fekkers…" Rollins growls, swallowing back his fear.

"Hold the line! The Emperor protects!"

"Grenades! Toss your damn grenades!"

They all have a few of those. Wess, Sorren and Crawley each unhook a frag, pull the pin and fling them underhanded at the charging Hounds. As the mechanized abominations pass over they detonate: one horse-sized Hound looses both its front paws while a smaller one is blown cleanly in half. Ritter, Knolls, Wess and Sorren open fire, screaming the Litany of Hate as the remaining six Hounds fall upon them. Rollins steps forward into the path of the foremost Alpha and a jet of flaming promethium baptizes the hulking beast as its jaws gape wide to rend him. Knolls laughs as his chainsword severs another's lash-tail before scouring it along the Hound's flank in a shower of sparks. Crawley exchanges his long-las for a scavenged autogun and opens up on a twin pair of Hounds each as big as a Joskollian rock-bear. Wailing incoherently, Sorren charges a wolf-sized Hound with lasgun and bayonet, Wess at his side, adding her firepower to his, making short work of their target before they race to Crawley's aid.

The second Alpha, swerving away and around his flaming counterpart, never looses focus on the objective: the artifact he was programed by his long-extinct creators to protect. He makes straight for Ritter. The commissar is waiting.

 **III**

The bolter-rounds sound like thunderclaps in Ritter's ears, exploding the silence of Vespit with such intrusive, concussive force he is virtually deafened. The Alpha's body shudders as the explosive bullets tear into it; but no pain is felt, no fear. Both machine and man are weakened by age, each a hollow shell of the fighting force they each once were. Unmaintenanced for thousands of years, the Hound retains only its most rudimentary hunter-killer initiatives. That the aggressively defiant creatures it has been stalking and slaying are Imperial humans is meaningless to it. It would have responded to the presence of the Eldar or the tau in the same manner. All intruders are to be eliminated: only the priests of _Hele-rreh_ have the authority to approach or handle the sacred _hek-kraa_. Ritter is a trespasser, a thief and an alien. He is not _hurr-kian_. He must be purged. But the _hek-kraa_ is not to be damaged. The Hound must act with upmost caution. These are its pre-programmed initiatives; it has no sense of self, only the safety of the _hek-kraa_ is important. It feels its systems failing; damage reports echo in its brain. It does not matter. The holy _hek-kraa_ will be delivered and the alien intruders will die. That is the sole purpose of its kind, the _hawkln-kul_.

A fresh wave of exhaustion sweeps through Ritter and fever-chills shiver through his body. The world tilts unsteadily around him and out of his peripheral vision he sees the spectres of the dead gathering to witness his final battle. Okjarr is there, his eyes full of understanding and pity. Leeds sneers at the commissar, his face purple and swollen. Graystone and Landon stand at attention in full dress uniform, as if awaiting inspection. Though Ritter has fought in and survived battles, sieges, skirmishes and ambushes that left hundreds slain around him, the dead soldiers he hallucinates always have a personal connection to him. Those he passed judgment on leer and snarl at him, scorn and hate in their deadened eyes; those he administered mercy to salute him with their weapons, their faces grave and somber. Kaegan he does not see. The world seems to slow down. Everything sounds distant and dim, as if he is alone with the great Hound. The beast is regarding him wearily. Ritter knows this is not because the creature is afraid of him. His bolt-pistol is empty, all eight rounds having struck true. The creature is dying; two of its eyes are dark. A thick reflective metallic fluid oozes from its wounds and pools on the ground below it. But victory has not yet been won. The Hound is readying itself for a final assault, one last attack that will decide both their fates. Ritter is weary of running, of retreating. His hands are beginning to shake; fatigue is threatening to overwhelm him. He drops his bolter and takes up his saber in both hands. Slowly he advances on the crouching crimson-lit construct, swishing the power-wreathed blade back and forth in lazy arrogant arcs, taunting the guardian, goading it.

'Do you want it _back_ , beast?' the commissar snarls. 'Come and _take_ it from me, abomination. I will wait no more. The Emperor provides; Joskoll will not yield.'

The Hound's body does not move, betrays no warning, yet Ritter instinctively jerks to one side as the monster's wire-like tail shoots towards his face, seeking to skewer an eye and impale his brain. He is not quick enough to completely dodge the projectile – pain explodes along his cheek as the serrated whip slices it open. With a swift upward cut Ritter severs the Hound's tail in two and the disconnected half falls writhing uselessly at his feet. But the attack is a diversion. Even as its tail-strike is averted the rest of the Hound follows as it launches itself forward. Its head rams into Ritter's armored chest, knocking him backwards off his feet. Before the commissar can recover the Hound pins him in place, one splayed eight-clawed paw pressing down on his cuirass while the other claws at Ritter's sword-arm, ripping into the exposed flesh and preventing him from stabbing its neck or head. With his free hand Ritter draws his spare laspistol and fires it point-blank into the Hound's throat as the creature's distended jaws descend upon his face. The Hound jerks its head back, gnashing its teeth as Ritter fires again and again, screaming wordlessly as he struggles to free his sword-arm, writhing under the pressure of the Hound's paw which does not give or shift a fraction.

'Commissar…! Hang on, sir…get off him, you fekking _–_!'

Out of the dust stirred up by battle lunges Knolls, Ritter's chainblade clenched in both hands, his simple face a mask of bestial rage. Without hesitation he charges at the Alpha, bringing the weapon down in a vicious uppercut upon the Hound's thick neck. Sparks fly as the screaming weapon bores hungrily into the creature's mechanized flesh. The beast swings its head around to snap at the commissar's adjutant, its movements sluggish and jerky. Casting away his overheating laspistol, Ritter reaches over, grabs his sword from his trapped hand and drives it into the Hound's chest, pushing it in as deeply as it can penetrate. The Alpha goes into convulsions, rearing upright and wrenching itself free of the blade. Finally freed, Ritter rolls to one side just as the Hound crashes to the ground, twisting and thrashing, its jaws biting at nothing. Knolls ceases his assault, stumbling back from the dying xenos construct, chainsword still whirring. With a final burst of exertion Ritter stands upright and takes eight steps back from his smitten foe before falling again as another wave of vertigo hits him. Blood is flowing freely from his face and mangled arm and his whole body is shaking uncontrollably.

'Sir, you're hurt!" Knolls exclaims as he falls to his knees beside the wounded commissar, his eye full of alarm. 'Medic! _Wess!_ Commissar Ritter needs you!'

Ritter coughs and blinks as his eyes water up. Great billows of dust hang in the air, casting a haze over the battle and obscuring the warring figures within. Sound is only just beginning to return. He can only hear dimly what Knolls is saying. The stench of burning promethium and cooking flesh is strong. The downed Alpha continues to twitch and jerk, incapacitated and no more of a threat. Ritter reaches down pulls the satchel up to his chest. The Artifact still vibrates within. Inquisitor Setherin's prize remains in Imperial hands, for now.

'Knolls…go aid the others…I need to rest a moment…my wounds are not…life-threatening…'

'Let me bandage your arm first sir, its bleeding pretty bad…' 'Go on, Knolls, I'll do it…' Ritter insists as he pulls his coat sleeve down over the weeping lacerations on his right arm.'You know I've suffered worse…any casualties?'

Knolls sneezes and wipes his nose. 'Rollins is dead. He and that other big one went up together all afire. I think Sorren and Crawley are hurt but – _Throne!_ '

A Hound emerges from the haze, lurching unsteadily due to a partially-severed hind leg, but to the commissar's horror it is dragging a limp Sorren, its jaws locked into the vox-operator's neck and shoulder. With a cry Knolls springs upright and charges the second creature with the screaming chainblade. Before Ritter can do anything the Hound's tail lashes out at his adjutant's head and Knolls reels back in agony, blood spraying from his face and remaining eye.

'No!" Ritter staggers to his feet and flourishes his sword, trying to draw the beast's attention. 'I'm the one you want – come to me!'

The Hound tosses Sorren aside and lurches towards the commissar, maw agape, its tail weaving and whipping about its head. With his injured arm pressed against his chest, Ritter takes up a defensive stance with the crackling blade, struggling to land a hit on the questing tail while keeping it from striking his face and chest. The Hound fills his entire vision and his world is reduced to the grinding slog of cut and parry. With an abrupt unexpected flex the Hound whips its tail down low and across Ritter's shins, cutting through fabric, boot leather and skin and slicing them open to the bone. Ritter falls screaming, his guard broken, and the Hound swipes out a paw, all eight claws fully extended, catching him in the side and sending the moral officer tumbling over in the dust. Pain envelops Ritter and darkness gathers at the edges of his vision. Death and duty's end has come at last. Throwing his wounded arm protectively across his face, the fallen commissar brandishes his sword in defiance one final time…

There is series of loud rapid-fire reports and the Hound pitches forward onto its face as heavy slugs tear into its neck and disintegrate a foreleg. Its tail lashes about spasmodically as the beast crashes onto its side, and is stilled forever when the remaining bullets rupture its head in an explosive shower of metallic gore.

'Number fekking _twelve_ …' Norman Crawley hisses. The sniper's helmet is off and his lank dark hair is plastered to his sweat-streaked brow. His face is twisted by a savage smile of victory. His cold green eyes appraise Ritter and his injuries, his contempt plain for the commissar to see.

'Well sir, just when I thought you couldn't look any worse you go and prove me wrong. Not very inspiring, I'll say – still, you got off easier then Rollins: that flaming monster took him out in a literal blaze of glory…'

Crawley pauses and looks askance at Sorren's motionless body before shrugging dismissively in an attempt to mask his grief. "Looks like he bled out quickly…and what's happened to the dog-boy, now?"

Jeffron Knolls is kneeling and holding his hands to his lacerated face, blood dribbling from between his fingers, the chainsword still activated and buzzing by his side. 'C-commissar? Crawley? I need…I need help…I can't see…'

Crawley jogs over to the wounded trooper, picks up the chainblade and deactivates it. Kneeling he bats away the adjutant's hands and examines the Guardsmen's face closely. 'Fek, boy; you're gonna need augmetics for both those baby-blues now. That's what happens when you attack like a mad dog, you stupid grunt.'

 _Where is Wess?_ Ritter wonders, struggling to stay focused, fighting not to scream for the terrible agony of his limbs and side. Reaching into his webbing he withdraws a packet of pain-inhibitors, palming five and dry-swallowing them. Gritting his teeth he begins to drag himself towards the two Joskollians, leaving a trail of bloodied soil behind him. The torturous silence is resuming its rule and the ash-dust is beginning to settle. Smoke and dying flames are rising from the burning and sizzling bodies of Rollins and the first Alpha, their scorched forms locked together in a fused embrace. Bodies and pieces of Hounds and Imperial weapons litter the ground. Then the commissar sees Wess, propped up against the side of one of the bear-seized creatures. She is not moving. Altering his course, Ritter crawls over to her, refusing to trust his eyes alone tell him what has happened.

'Wess...?" Her chin rests on her chest and her eyes are closed, her posture almost identical to that of Landon's in the cave. Her left hand still clutches her lasrifle, her right grasping her medikit. Hauling himself up next to her Ritter sees blood matting the hair on the left side of her head. He is just about to reach for her when her eyelids flicker and open. She raises her head and looks at him dazedly.

'I…I wasn't sleeping, commissar…I, I hit my head, I think…'

'I understand Wess, I need you to…' Suddenly she clasps a hand to his forehead. 'You feel overly feverish, Ritter. Have you been taking your medication?'

'I…yes, I have, Wess…' Ritter cannot remember when he last took the appalling cocktail of prescribed medications that allegedly manage his symptoms, but he knows it hasn't been recently.

'Wess, listen, you need get with it. All the Hounds are dead, but we've lost Rollins and Sorren and the rest us are injured. I –'

'Knolls! Holy Throne, what happened to you?' She turns distractedly from him and stares wide-eyed at his adjutant, whom Crawley has guided over. The young trooper's face is horrific to behold: fearful lacerations cut through both eyes and the blood streams down his cheeks and chin, dripping and spattering on the ground between his boots. He holds the chainsword extended downward in one hand, its tip scraping the soil, utilizing it as a seeing cane.

'I was…stupid…' Knolls whispers, hanging his head in shame. Ritter glares furiously at Crawley. The sniper swallows and pulls Knolls back a pace.

Wess sits up, blinking, coming fully back to reality. 'Rollins and Sorren are dead?'

She looks up at Crawley, who nods affirmatively. 'We're all that's left, Abbi,' he says, his voice raw and bitter. 'And ol' Scarecrow will join them if you don't shift yourself. He's torn up pretty bad; he actually took on two of those cog-dogs single-handed.'

Wess turns to Ritter, about to ask him something when they all hear the sound again – that dreaded, persistent, unmistakable sound…

 _Cak-krak..! Cak-krak..! Cak-krak...!_

"Oh God-Emperor…" Wess whispers, her face going pale.

'I hear them – I hear the cog dogs!' Knolls clutches Crawley's arm tightly, his bloodied face casting about in blind alarm.

' _Fek,_ oh _fek_ …here, let go of me and get down!' Crowley pushes Knolls down beside Wess, then stands glaring at all three, knowing he is the only soldier capable of mounting an offensive and knowing it will not be enough. Wess makes as if to stand, but the sniper holds up a hand.

'Don't bother, Wess – its over. I'll hold them off as long as I can, for whatever it's worth. You…you see to your patients.'

'Crawley, wait…' withdrawing his final bolt-magazine, Ritter extends it to his longtime foe. 'My bolter…is somewhere close by…use it…kill as many as you can…'

Crawley takes the clip, his drawn face grim and set. Old grudges and animosity are set aside. The sniper wants to say something, something sarcastic and worthy of Sorren or something noble and worthy of Rollins, but his mind is blank; what can he tell the dying commissar that the man doesn't already know or expect? They are both soldiers of the God-Emperor; words are not necessary. Ritter nods, a curt gesture of assent and encouragement. Crawley turns, hoisting his autogun across his shoulder and strides to his final glory without once looking back. The pain is starting to ebb; Ritter feels his blood soaking into his clothes, dampening the earth under him. The darkness deepens as his vision drifts and wanes. Where is Kaegan? He tries to focus on keeping his grip on his sword but Wess is pawing at him, trying to pull his coat off, attempting to assess the damage. Weakly he pushes her away, his dry tongue sliding over blood-grimed teeth as he struggles to form words. 'Tend to my aide first, medic.'

Wess is so desensitized to the commissar's death-like appearance and cowed by the memory of him striking her the last time she made unwanted physical advances that she immediately turns to the blinded trooper but Knolls also pushes her away, shaking his head. 'No, no you've got to help Commissar Ritter first; his arm is hurt. I saw it...'

Again the silence is violently shattered by Crawley's autogun. Ritter squints through dimming eyes, seeing the sniper standing forty yards away, firing furiously. Before him rise fresh dust-clouds as five visible Hounds lope towards him. Wess stands, rasing her lasrifle and slamming a fresh cell-pack home while favoring Ritter with a sidelong defiant what-the-hells-look. Knolls extends the chainsword before him with both hands, reactivating it with a whirring buzz. Drawing upon his last reserves of strength, Ritter rises to his knees, then staggers to his feet, Kaegan's sword digging into the earth to prop his failing body. This is his final stand. The world tilts and shifts; everything is covered in blood-taint – the expiring sun glares coldly down upon them, casting its crimson taint across the expired world. Then a new sound fills Ritter's ears, lancing through the air with a skull-splitting force so intense that he does not recognize it for what it is, and when the charging Hounds are consumed in a flash of fire and the blast concussion throws him and Wess back against the fallen xenos-construct, he is only vaguely aware of the swift shadow of a gunship streaking across the ground, of his vox-bead clicking in his ear, of Wess crying out to Crawley who does not respond, and of Knolls crying plaintively out for him as he falls into…

 **o0o**

*Or, in vulgar Low Gothic: _War is Life and Life is Death_

 **A/N: So, as most of chapter three is still up in the air...how grimdark should this get? Do you care about the characters enough to want them to survive? The Inquisition is here!**


End file.
